


From Molly To Sherlock

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 03:23:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1289350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	From Molly To Sherlock

# From Molly To Sherlock

Dearest Sherlock,

How do I even start? I’m not really good at this kind of stuff. I don’t even know why I’m doing this. I just— I don’t exactly know why, but I feel like I wanted to make you a letter; of how exactly you make me feel and how weird and stupid everything is when you’re around.

You probably never noticed me. I mean you do notice me, but in a co-worker way. Do you get me? It’s like I’m visible but at the same time invisible. I don’t know if that makes sense.

But you told me; you told me I counted and that I always had. Do you know how that affected me? I almost forgot how to breathe. Funny thing, the human mind, it never stops working right from the day we were born and stops when I look into your eyes. I mean, it doesn’t literally stop, I just, I’m trying to be romantic. I probably should stop doing that.

What else do I write here? I probably should write everything I hate about you. That’s right, there’s so many things I dislike about you despite how many times I told you how I like you. I don’t know why, I just feel like I had to. I’m always like this when it comes to you; irrational and illogical. It’s like all my years of studying and all my expertise vanish and I’m just swept by you. It’s foolish, I’m sorry, but that’s just exactly how I feel. Maybe that’s the first thing I hate about you.

Well, I hate your eyes. How they look so energetic, so alive, when you come in for a case; like, for goodness sake, a person is dead and you get all giggity and excited. It’s not decent. But then again, I work in the morgue, so I can’t exactly hate you for that. I also hate how they shift from green to blue to gray; are you aware they do that? Your eyes, I mean. I hate that they make me fall even more whenever I look at them. How they remind me that somewhere inside all that stone cold appearance you want the world to see, a human being lies, waiting to be noticed. But then again, you always told us you’re a sociopath, and you’ve divorced yourself from all emotions, so I guess that’s just me hallucinating all that stuff.

I hate that when you look sad, you make me feel sad, too. How you think no one could see you. But I see you, Sherlock, I see you. But I didn’t count. Or so I thought.

I hate it whenever I fail at attempting to ask you out. For some time, can you please see that when I ask if you’d like a coffee, I’m asking you to have coffee with me, on another place, together, of course. I hate how you treat me like your secretary, making you coffee and all, yet I still haven’t gotten myself on hating you at all.

I hate your turned-up collar and your curly hair. I hate how they sweep me off my feet and if only I wasn’t able to resist, I probably have drooled. I hate how you walk in the room and fill it with your presence.

I hate how you don’t appreciate everything I do for you. I know, I know, clearly, that I am not that attractive and I am probably not worth your attention; but could you possibly please notice when I part my hair just because you told me it looked good on me for a change? Or when I make an effort to give you a present or dress up like a lady? Okay, I’m kidding. Sorry, I’ll try not to again.

I hate how you told me I counted and how the butterflies in my stomach never stopped in that moment. They might probably have been bats, I think. I hate how my heart beated like it wanted a way out of my chest. Were you aware that you could do that to me? I hope you are.

I hate that whenever you kiss me, I wish for more. I know it’s wrong, especially when I told you I was engaged to Tom. But you just leave me speechless and dumb and longing for more. Do you usually do that to most women?

But then again, I guess I’m not women. Because I’m the woman who the famous Consulting Detective trusted. I hate how you made me feel important by playing a role in your “fake suicide” and how I could never pull back the irritating grin glued on my face.

I hate how you make me feel like a teenage girl. For goodness sake, I’m a grown woman with a professional job but there I was, writing in a journal on how my crush asked me to solve crimes with him, kissed me on the cheek, and wished for my happiness. I hate how I considered that day my best one, over the day Tom asked me to marry him.

I hate how you came to my aide when I had my heart broken. I hate how you know how exactly to make me smile when Tom cancelled the engagement. How would you know that? How would you know the way to a girl’s shattered heart? But you’re the world’s only Consulting Detective, so I guess you know stuff.

I hate how I couldn’t resist to every request you say. You have me spellbound and love drunk. Your every wish is my command. I hate how I look like a-little-puppy-waiting-for-her-master-to-throw-the-stick around you.

I hate how no matter how much I say I hate you, I just don’t. I hate that even if I could make a list of a hundred things I hate about you, I could write a thousand one to state every reason why I love you. Mr. Holmes, are you fully aware that you’ve enslaved my heart? I’m yours and yours alone. I guess that’s another thing I hate about you.

I love you. Seriously, I do. It’s ridiculous, foolish, illogical, whatever you want to call it. But the more I find reasons to hate you, the more I fall deeper. And I don’t really wanna resist the fall.

I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. A lot. As much as the count of the stars in the heavens. I will always for as long as my heart beats.

An author once said, “You don’t get to choose if you get hurt in this world, old man, but you do have some say in who hurts you.”

I like my choices and I know I won’t regret them. I hope you like yours.

Without Wax,

Molly Hooper xx

P.S. Without Wax means _sincerely_. It came from the word _Sin Cera_ meaning without wax. I don’t know why I’m telling you this or why I bothered myself with such facts or why I signed my letter like that. I just— I love you. Just please remember that.

 


End file.
